


Bomb in the Garden

by wolftrapvirginia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:38:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolftrapvirginia/pseuds/wolftrapvirginia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sgt Colbert and Lt Fick enjoy a reprieve on an empty rooftop Baghdad among the chaos of war. Set during the last episode of the show, specifically the evening of the day the platoon stays in an abandoned cigarette factory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bomb in the Garden

 

He finds the LT on top of the factory roof, puffing on a cheap thin cigarette, one out of thousands they found in the basement of the very same building. It is the proverbial night’s darkest hour, too early for dawn, too far from sunset. The darkness, however, is relative - all three hundred sixty degrees of the sky and city line around them are constantly blazed with explosions and flares from machine gunfire. 

The bursts illuminate the LT’s face in short flashes, as Brad comes closer. His expression is mostly hidden in the blue smoke from the cigarette.

 

Despite most of the platoon showering with an icy hose today, LT’s - Nate’s - face is still harboring spots of dusty dirt. Like souvenirs. As if it was Nate’s intention to leave visible marks on himself to signify all the damage they were causing to this country for the past four weeks. 

 

Brad doesn’t dwell on the thought, though. 

 

“If only I knew you were so partial to subpar Iraqi tobacco produce, I wouldn’t feel like such a fool offering to kiss you for all that LSA, Sir.” He smirks and flops comfortably next to the LT, his faithful M-4 momentarily touching LT’s M-16 with a quiet thud. 

 

Nate jerks, and then immediately relaxes. “Brad,” He warmly says in acknowledgment. 

 

For a moment they indulge in their familiar cozy cocoon of mutual silence. They never  needed words in order to communicate. The burning hellish skyline is stretched in front of them like a theater curtain, the only soundtrack the now barely-noticeable cacophony of war.

Brad turns his head lazily to watch as Nate brings the damn thing to his mouth, full lips engulfing the filter. He inhales and then starts coughing violently. 

 

Brad leans in, stealing the offending cancer stick from Nate’s grip with his left hand. 

 

“Offering to kiss me wasn’t entirely unwelcome,” Nate rasps through the cough, eyes tearing from earlier irritation. “And I’m actually not—It’s my fir—I had dip, but never actually smoked before.” He sounds even more tired than he looks, uncharacteristically stumbling over the words. And yet somehow his voice holds the stern familiarity of the fearless platoon commander Brad has been listening to over the comms this entire clusterfuck of a mission. 

 

Brad inhales, attempting not to burst into coughing as well; the cigarette tastes stale. It’s been years since he’s done this either. “I would never guess, Sir”. 

 

And then there it is - the tiniest twitch in the corner of Nate’s lips, not yet a smile, but a dawn of one. Brad has been getting addicted to earning these with his sarcastic one-liners. Yeah, Brad certainly enjoyed watching the LT’s futile attempts to suppress his reaction (biting his lower lip, clenching his jaw, inhaling sharply). 

 

In these short moments, in their seemingly untouchable cocoon, the rules of engagement no longer apply. The LT makes a half-hearted attempt at hiding from Brad’s observant eye but then gives in. He turns to Brad’s side, corner of his lips twitching and instantly selling him out.

 

“When I started in the Corps,” Nate says slowly, “I was referred to as too young, too privileged to understand what it meant to serve. In this mission, I was called too aggressive, insubordinate. All because I was looking out for my men.”

 

“Permission to speak freely?” Brad takes another puff off the cigarette, enjoying the heady nicotine rush being delivered straight into his brain. Nate looks at him incredulously.

 

“Did I ever gave you a reason not to speak freely in our private conversations, Sergeant?” It is said in their usual half-joking manner, but Brad still likes the way it sounds. _Private conversations_.

“You are an armed Ivy League-educated officer, with a face of an altar boy and a heart of gold,” Brad says with an over-dramatic note of finality in his voice, and then adds, “ _Sir_.”

 

For a mere second, the time it takes for a round from his M-4 to hit the target, Nate’s eyes are greener than he remembers Oceanside grass to be, mouth slightly open in unabated surprise. He then nods curtly. “This reminds me, I meant to thank you downstairs. I appreciate the respect you showed me during this mission, despite all the mess we encountered. And you should know, that respect is mutual.”

 

Brad snorts at that. “What an incredibly overdrawn excessively formal P-C answer, Sir. Perhaps you’re confusing me with Rolling Stone?” Nate looks conflicted, shadows of long dusty eyelashes marking the swift movements of his eyes going up and down Brad’s face. Brad adds, almost recklessly, “What you mean to say is, I treated you like neither an altar boy nor a dissident that you seem to be confused with but of course you aren’t. Anyone with half a brain would’ve done the same, Sir, but of course, that description doesn’t apply to most of our command.”

 

Ever the gentleman, Nate will never stand for insulting the command. “Brad—“

 

“So you’re welcome. Sir. I know you don’t confuse me with a whiskey tango easy labor force truck driver that I seemed to have been playing this entire invasion.”

 

“Of course not,” Nate says, finally a bright smile settling on his face. “That’s an _affront to your warrior spirit_.”

 

Brad grins back, the memories of their earlier conversation echoing in his head. Night watch on the road to Baghdad, leaning against the hood of Brad’s Humvee, their thighs almost touching. Nate teasing him about the latrines at the new camp and not getting a true Recon mission.

 

A large blast suddenly breaks their peace, sounding closer than previous attacks. The concrete beneath their boots is vibrating. A sharp stripe of white is going across the sky, and then more dust settles on their fatigues. 

 

Nate’s expression is back to the disillusionment he’s been sporting for weeks: clenched jaw, biting his lower lip, and those painfully empathetic eyes that make Brad’s icy heart miss a fucking beat in understanding.

 

“Look at this city. Do you really think we made the lives of these people any better? That we liberated them? We encountered Syrians coming here to fight us. Countless lives were lost already, both Iraqi civilians and American military. And this is only the beginning.” Nate is staring into the flickering abyss in front of them.

 

“Sir, as you said to me in the same conversation that I was flaunting my warrior spirit in, we’re coming back with all our men alive. And we both know it is thanks to your judgment and your daily attempts to unfuck the situation.” Nate nods in wordless gratitude, Brad’s ocean-blue eyes piercing him to the bone. “You should take pride in that.”

 

This wasn’t necessary, Nate knows. Nonetheless, he is so glad he got to hear it from “the Iceman” himself, put in actual words, tone warm but serious. “I _am_ grateful for that. I am also grateful for your warrior spirit, as ostentatious as it makes you.” 

 

“Never, Sir,” Brad smirks. 

 

“I overheard you talking about your bike earlier. That must be something you’re really looking forward to.”

 

“Nothing like a 5 AM ride down PCH before all the traffic sets in. 150 miles per hour, only the speed and solitude.” Brad offers wistfully.

 

“California does sound incredible. When I was leaving in February it was still snowing in Baltimore,” Nate laughs. 

 

It’s out before Brad can stop himself. “You should come.” Pause. “Sometime.”

 

Brad watches as Nate bites his lower lip and then is licking across it to soothe the marks, something he’s been doing the entire mission, driving Brad crazy. Nate, worrying his ever dry lips, biting them, licking over the bites when staring at Brad, or discussing the plan, or staring at his map. It was always done absent-mindedly but never failed to be ridiculously arousing for Brad.

 

“Does your bike fit two? Or would I have to chase you in a rental?” 

 

And Brad can’t help himself. “You can always _ride bitch_. Sir.”

 

Despite all the sexual bravado Brad could be guilty of, despite all the posturing that Marines tend to do, he has never done anything like this. Never openly flirted with his CO on an empty rooftop. 

He watches with great pleasure as Nate’s too-green eyes blaze at him at the pure blatant cockiness of the answer, the familiar rush of adrenaline making his stomach feel lighter, the tingling in his knees down into the ground.

 

This is dangerous territory. If someone was watching them right now this couldn’t be passed off as companionship, just two Marines chit-chatting after a long day, the way their interactions could be seen as in the past. Ironically, he thought about doing all kinds of things to the LT during combat jacks but he didn't spend a mere second thinking what it would be like to _start_ doing all those things.

 

There is no big blow up, no over-reactions or sudden reasons to leave. “Is that right,” Nate says evenly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

It sounds somewhat ominous and Brad laughs a little too quickly. Like a virgin on her fucking prom night, he cringes inwardly. But he knows perfectly well he is skating on very thin ice. “Nothing homoerotic, Sir.”

 

They’re in each other’s face, and Brad can see small specs of freckles on Nate’s skin, even under layers of dust and dirt. Nate makes a low sound in his throat, like a wounded animal, and then catches himself with sharp inhale of breath, eyes looking down. 

 

He’s not wearing his Kevlar helmet, and the buzzed hair on the nape of his neck is soft under Brad’s fingers when Brad finally leans in, a few inches worth of movement feeling like the longest Recon mission he’s ever been part of. Both of Nate’s hands grab at Brad’s jacket, but not pushing away or forcing Brad closer. His grip is strong, reminding Brad of who this is pressed against him, his strong and confident LT, and not a nameless hooker.

 

Their lips are a mere puff of breath away and Brad lingers in the safeness of this limbo before jumping off a cliff. He looks down at Nate’s lips, and upwards, at Nate’s trembling lashes. Colbert repeats much quieter this time, voice rough like edges of a wound. “Nothing homoerotic, Sir.”

 

“Of course not,” Nate breathes, his trademark steel tone reduced to a shaky whisper.

 

There are small red marks on Nate’s lips left by his own teeth from the endless biting and Brad licks at them experimentally before kissing Nate deeply, pressing against Nate’s body, taut like a guitar string.

 

And then Nate growls into his mouth, finally giving in; he is answering the kiss, hands roaming all over Brad’s chest, tugging him closer like he can never get enough. 

 

It feels like a bomb going off in Brad’s head; a bomb that has been ticking and ticking, depriving him of sleep and interfering with his combat jacks and briefings, not letting him care about anything but fucking Nate Fick and his short meaningful glances and bitten lips.

 

One less bomb in the garden, Brad thinks with satisfaction.

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this breathtakingly beautiful work](http://pticha21.deviantart.com/art/Nothing-homoerotic-Sir-285208306)


End file.
